So, as we left the sultry confines of the club and stepped out into the night, we reveled in the shirt-sleeve weather. Rhonda murmured, “Ball me.”
What did she say, was she suggesting …? I turned toward her, casually, and asked, “Hm? Whadjousay?”
“This weather,” she answered. “They call this ‘balmy’ weather.”
I cleared my throat and agreed.